Frozen Flower
by Mana Yood Sushai
Summary: Hitch-hiking without a purpose, Fox, in a low point of his life, encounters someone like himself, someone in a smiliar position, who can understand him.


_From Fox McCloud's point of view_

* * *

The fine February night poked through with blazing stars. It was cold, and there were the bleak sounds of winter; the wind passing through dead trees, the bare branches rattling in the night like bones, the occasional _whooshing _of the car along the highway.

It was cold, and I was more dead than alive, or so I remember. I had picked quite a fine day to say good-bye to the college scene and hitchhike back east; it was so cold that I literally considered the possibility that I might freeze to death, despite the jacket I had and the fur I had.

A cop had kicked me off the interstate ramp, and threatened to bust me if he caught me thumbing again. I was almost tempted to wise-mouth him and let him do it.

The flat, four-lane stretch of highway had been like an airport landing strip, the wind whooping and pushing membranes of powdery snow skirling along the concrete.

I walked across the access road, trying to find a ride. But to everyone driving by, if they see someone walking in the breakdown lane on a dark night, they immediately think he is either a rapist or a murderer.

Walking, I knew that if I didn't find someplace warm in a while, I was going to pass out.

I walked a mile and a half before I found a combination diner and diesel shop on the 340 just outside of some small city.

JOE'S GOOD EATS, the neon sign said. There were three big rigs parked in the crushed-stone parking lot, as well as some old cars, and one new car.

I walked towards the place, the tip of my fingers feeling like pieces of furniture despite the fur.

I opened the door and went in.

The heat was the first thing that struck me, warm and good.

The second thing that struck me was The Eye.

You know what I'm talking about; the look people give you when they know you don't belong, the one people give you when they see you and they think you must be inferior.

Right now, people were giving it to me. There was a group of six men seated at one booth, a couple sitting in another booth, and a falcon with blue feathers sitting at the counter.

It was the six men and the couple that were giving me that look, but not the falcon, who was staring at the bottom of his coffee cup, a plate with a half-finished meal at his side.

But it was the falcon that was the third thing to strike me.

As I went and sat down on one of the high-chairs, I looked at him. He was sitting two chairs away from me. He had blue colored feathers and a patch of red smooth skin around his eyes. He had blue solemn eyes.

I glared at him, admiring him, when the short-order cook came over and looked at me.

"What?" he asked.

"Black coffee, please," I replied, and he went to get it. From behind me, I could hear someone say: "Well, look at this kid here, a regular snob."

The guys at the counter laughed, a quick yuk-yuk sound, and I ignored it,

The short-order cook brought the coffee back, jarred it down on the counter, and spilled some of it on my hand, I jerked it back rapidly, feeling it burn.

"Sorry," he said indifferently.

"He's gonna heal it hisself," one of the men in the booth behind me called out.

I blew on the coffee as the they laughed and jeered, and although I tried to ignore them, I could feel my blood beginning to burn.

Someone tugged at my sleeve. I turned my head and there he was - he had moved over to the empty stood behind him. Looking up at his blue feathered face close up, I felt myself blush, and I was thankful that it wouldn't show through my fur.

I spilled some more of my coffee.

"Don't let them get to you." His voice was low.

"Yeah, I won't," was the only thing I could say.

He grinned, and asked; "Where are you from?"

"Corneria City," I told him.

"And what brings you here?" he asked.

"I'm thumbing," I said to him. "A cop kicked me off the interstate and I only came here to get out of the cold. You see, I'm from the college-"

"You're from the university?"

"I was. I quit."

"Are you going home?" he asked, and I thought that I heard some concern, however small, in his voice.

"No home to go to. I was a state ward, I got to school on a scholarship. I blew it. Now, I don't know where I'm going; the only place I can think of is from where I come from."

That was my life story in five sentences. I guess it made me feel depressed.

He laughed a small laugh – the sound of it made me run hot and cold. "We're cats out of the same bag then. Kind of same with me."

I was about to make my best conversational shot – something witty, probably, when a hand came down on my shoulder.

I turned around. It was one of the men from the booth. He was a wolf, snarling, and he had a white stubble on his chin, a wooden toothpick poking out of his mouth. He smelled of engine oil.

"I think you're done with that coffee," he said. His mouth parted around the toothpick in a grin. I noticed he had a lot of very white teeth.

"What?"

"You're stinking the place up, fella. You _are _a fella, aren't you? Kinda hard to tell."

"You aren't so handsome yourself," I replied, and I felt the falcon kick me under the table, as if to remind me that I shouldn't let them get to me. But I ignored him, confronting the wolf."What's that aftershave, handsome? _Eau de Crankcase?_"

He gave me a hard shot across the side of the face with his open hand. I saw black dots.

"Don't fight in here," the short-order cook said. "If you're going to scramble him, do it outside."

"Come on, you god-damned liberal," the wolf said, and his companions were all smiling and grinning, standing beside him.

The falcon was watching carefully, not saying anything. He was watching both of us though, with a feverish intention.

"Do I have to sock you again?" asked the wolf.

"No. Come on shit-heels."

After I said that, he laughed, and all his friends jeered as they went outside. I followed, afraid and at the same time pumped up.

I don't know what jumped out of me. I don't like to fight. I'm not a good fighter. I'm an even worse name-caller. But I was angry and afraid then.

I opened the door and went outside, and wolf and all his friends were standing at the center of the parking lot. The cold was so cold and so clean that it felt as though it were cutting out bodies with little knives. The frosted gravel of the lot gritted harshly under the wolf's heavy boots and my shoes. We

The moon, full and bloated, looked at us with a vapid eye. It was faintly ringed, suggesting bad weather on the way. The sky was as black as a night in hell, and we all left tiny dwarfed shadows behind our feet in the monochrome glare of the single sodium light set high on a pole behind the parked rigs. Our breath plumed the air in short bursts.

Suddenly, I was afraid. I realized that this wolf and his friends would beat me; they'd leave me here in this parking lot.

And where was I to go, all beaten and crippled?

I was afraid.

I thought of running, but quickly discarded that idea, because, first of all, his cronies were surrounding the parking lot, forming a wall. Second, even if I did get past them, they'd probably catch up with me anyways. And if I went back into the diner, they'd drag me back out again.

There was nothing to do except fight.

Just then, there was the sound of the door opening, and some footsteps.

"Leave him alone," said a voice, low and booming and penetrating, and I recognized it as the falcon's.

I heard his footsteps, and he came close to me, and walked past me, putting himself in front of me, facing the wolf.

The rest of the men laughed, and the wolf called out "Faggots!"

But the falcon stood there, hands in his pockets, stout and unmoving as a statue.

"Fine then," said the wolf, snarling and grinning. "Fine then, faggot. I'll take you on first, and then your boyfriend."

The falcon merely took his hands out of his pockets, and advanced forward.

The wolf took a step back, his gloved fists balled.

"Okay, you son of a bitch," he said, and he lunged forward. He came at the falcon, swinging his fists. The falcon merely avoided and dodged, and it looked as though he were dancing.

"Come on, fight, you fag!"

He continued to swing, panting erratically, until he overswung, and seizing his opportunity, the falcon kicked him in the guts,

The air barfed out of him in a white cloud, and he backed away, holding himself and coughing.

Without hesitating, the falcon moved forward and pounded him three tunes before he could even make a quarter turn – the neck, the shoulder, one red ear.

He made a howling noise of pain, and one of his flailing hands just barely touched the dauntless falcon.

He made another yowling noise, and the falcon kicked him again, bringing his foot up high and hard, like a punter. He screamed into the night, and I heard one of his ribs snap. He folded up, and the falcon dove in, like the bird of prey he was.

I watched as the falcon straddled him and grabbed double handfuls of the wolf's hair, and began to rub his face on the gravel. In the flat glare of the sodium light, his blood seemed black, as though he were an insect.

"Jesus, stop it!" someone yelled, but the falcon didn't stop, and nobody moved.

Some of the wolf's friends rushed forward and tried to pull the falcon off, but he whirled at them and made as though to strike them, and they backed off.

The wolf was trying to creep away. His face was a staring mask of blood from which his dazed eyes peered. He looked at me, and I kicked him once, dodging away from the others, grunting with satisfaction when my foot connected to his side.

He was beyond fighting back. All I knew was that he was trying to get away. His eyes were squeezed closed, and he crawled. He looked stupid. The falcon, his expression hard as stone, came up to the wolf, and the wolf squealed with what little energy he had and tried to creep away.

The falcon kicked him again, and he flopped over on his side, and he was staring right at me with his yellow eyes, pleading.

"Uncle," he croaked, both to me and to the avian. "I cry Uncle. Please. Please-"

The falcon knelt down before him and made as though to punch him, and when the wolf flinched, he scoffed, and stood up. Several of the wolf's friends, went back into the diner, and some helped their friends, calling out at the falcon.

"Jesus, you nearly killed him!"

"You bastard, what's wrong with you?"

The falcon began to walk away, as if nothing had happened. I followed him, before their attention came back to me, and I tried to catch up with him.

"You get out of here!" someone yelled, and then I could hear the short-order cook saying "I'm calling the cops, yes I am. All I know is that those two queers just about _killed _him-"

I caught up with him.

I had my hands in my pockets, and as I started to walk back to the interstate access road, I figured the chances of us getting a ride were about one in ten. My ears were freezing, and I felt sick to my stomach.

Some purty night.

"Hey," I said, and he turned back just a little. "Thanks for getting me out of that hotspot. Although, you didn't have to go that far either-"

"Yeah, you're welcome," he said nicely, and he continued walking.

We walked side by side in the frosty moonlight, in silence, as far as we could from that diner, until it faded out of sight, lost amidst the darkness and the dead forest of trees that lined the street. Besides an occasional vehicle moving along, we were the only ones out here.

"You think the cook was serious about calling the cops?" I asked after a while.

"Nah," he replied. "He only said that to scare us off, most likely. Or at least I hope so."

We kept walking, and we had been walking for a good twenty minutes in the cold starless night when I saw the green reflectorized sign – KEEP RIGHT FOR EXIT – twinkle up out of the night.

The moon was gone and it had begun to spit snow.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"The name's Falco. And yours is…?"

"Fox."

He turned around to face me, but he continued walking, backwards, and stretched his hand out. I took it; it was hot and feather covered, like the rest of his body, and his hold was firm.

"So, Falco," I inquired once we were done shaking hands and we were walking again. "What's your story?"

"Simple. My car broke down, and I walked to that diner to call the nearest town for repairs. They told me the soonest they could be there is tomorrow morning. And I met you there, and now, we're walking back to my car. Or, at least I am."

"Well," I told him. "As I said, I have nowhere to go. Mind if I stick with you for a while?"

He laughed, but it was a nice, kind laugh that reverberated through the cold and soundless winter air.

"I wouldn't mind the company," he said, turning his head around, grinning.

_Me neither,_ I thought, and continued walking.

After some more time walking, I felt exactly as I had before the entire experience at the diner. The snow was falling heavy now, and it was even colder.

"I'm cold, Falco. How long till we get to your car?"

As soon as I said that, he stopped, and I didn't realize it until I had taken a couple of steps ahead of him.

I turned back, walking towards him.

"What?"

"You're cold?" he asked.

I nodded, and he walked towards me, until he was close enough.

Then he put his arms around me, surprising me.

"Falco…you're so warm," I stammered, I was about to say _hot,_ but warm sounded better.

"Yeah, thanks," he said, and I put my arms around him, feeling his broad shoulders and back.

So there we were; two unfortunates, hugging on the side of the road to keep from freezing, with snow falling around us.

Very romantic.

The cold was still there, but it wasn't as sharp as it had been before. His body was very warm, and for a brief moment, I thought that I wouldn't mind freezing to death in the cold, as long as it was with him.

"Come on," he said softly into my ear, pressing the tip of his beak against my ear and I shuddered a little as he did. "The car's not very far now."

We walked holding hands, and after a while, the faint outline of the car became visible, and with every step, became more pronounced.


End file.
